


want grows stronger, deeper than the truth

by BlackBat09



Series: Sladerobin Weekend 2k19 [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Violence, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09
Summary: Everyone has rough nights, but Slade finds they’re easier with someone else beside him.





	want grows stronger, deeper than the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of Sladerobin Weekend 2019- Master/Slave | **“I will take care of you.”** | Biting
> 
> title from War of Hearts by Ruelle  
> this version of Tim stayed on as Lady Shiva’s apprentice and is now an assassin know as Shikra (a type of hunting bird)

It’s not often that Slade can say a job makes him sick.

No, he’s done things over the years that the average person would never forget, things that he doesn’t lose sleep over in the slightest. He’s got a strong stomach and a lot of blood on his hands, but sometimes... Sometimes it’s been a bad night.

Sometimes it’s been a bad few months.

Killing the mark isn’t a problem. Slade is happy to see the way to man panics at the sight of Deathstroke, more than fine driving his sword through the front of the man’s throat and pulling it out to watch him gurgle to death, head nearly falling from the stump of his neck. No, it’s not him.

It’s the rest of the warehouse he’d been holed up in, that Slade watches the police clear out from a nearby rooftop. It’s the children they keep bringing out, wrapped in emergency blankets, thin and clinging to each other, shying away from the guiding hands of adults in a way that speaks of the horrors they’ve seen. It’s the bruises and the limps and the skinny shoulders that Slade tallies up mentally with every little body that comes out of that building.

Watching from afar, every mop of blond hair looks like Joseph. Every child who lashes out in fear reminds him of Grant. Every girl is Rose. He has to lift his mask just to breathe, the unfiltered stink of the Gotham harbor almost choking, but he’ll take it, trying to stay steady as he rubs the image of his own children from his eye.

The heel of his palm is still pressed to his face when someone settles next to him, silent until Slade gets himself under some semblance of control, shuddering out one more breath before pulling his mask over his chin again.

“Terminator.” His eye doesn’t leave the warehouse evacuation at the sound. The voice is familiar, one of the few in Gotham that doesn’t set him on edge immediately, a feat for a bird in this city.

He’s a different sort of bird, though, has been for years.

“Shikra.” A hum is all that answers him, a bit of movement in his peripheral as Shikra adjusts his position, but he doesn’t do anything, just lets them sit in silence, bathed in alternating flashes of blue and red. Slade wishes they’d just turn it off, if they’re not going to have the sirens on, but it’s more because the rotating light is pounding into his skull like the crack of a concussion the longer he watches.

He speaks again without thinking. “How long do you think they were there.”

Shikra doesn’t answer the question, just looks at Slade, and he reluctantly counts it as a blessing that the bird doesn’t even hazard an estimate. He doesn’t actually want to know; the thought just unsettles him further.

“Have dinner with me.” Another blessing, a distraction, an invitation away from what Slade is putting himself through, what Shikra knows Slade is putting himself through.

A nod is all the consent Shikra needs to stand, the red-lined black of his coat flowing behind him as he turns his back on the warehouse, and start to walk away, not looking back at Slade: he knows Slade will follow. It takes him a few seconds to do so, giving once last lingering glance to the trafficking bust, before he heaves himself off the edge of the rooftop, eyes fixed on Shikra’s back, the tight bun at the back of his head, the way his coat flutters silently in the night air, flash of blood red that Slade chases every time he leaps from roof to roof. His breathing is already more even just having Shikra to focus on, a singular target, leading him to an objective.

The rest of his mind is still whirring softly, that this part of the north island is the Red Hood’s territory, marked with the occasional splash of cherry red paint across dirty brick, but it’s background noise; Shikra knows well how to avoid Todd, and he’s honestly least likely to pick a fight with them, anyways.

Slade knows they’ve arrived when Shikra simply drops off the edge of a roof instead of leaping to the next, stepping into empty air without hesitation, only the faintest clang of his soft soles hitting a fire escape reaching Slade’s ears before he follows him down, finding him unlocking what looks to be a maintenance entrance, the small basement that he locks them into not disputing that impression. It’s only the door within marked Sewer Access that reveals something else, as Shikra keys in a password and opens it, ushering Slade into what can only be described as a base of operations. The subfloor beneath the catwalk under Slade’s feet houses various vehicles and an exercise area, lockers and medical equipment on the level they stand on, a computer system and armory on the floor above.

Shikra’s hand grips his shoulder, firm enough to draw him from his own head but light enough not to startle. “Put your gear in one of the lockers.”

Slade doesn’t argue it, still lost in the buzz of his mind that seems to extend over his skin, discomfort crawling across every inch that his uniform touches: so, all of it. He opens one of the tall doors and pulls off his mask first, just to get some fucking air, Shikra’s nest smelling of faintly sweat and antiseptic and motor oil, tossing the black-and-orange fabric into the small cubby at the top of the locker. His sword follows, hung by the harness from a hook on the back wall, and then his chestplate lands on the floor of the locker, the rest of his armor clattering in a pile atop it. He checks each gun methodically, safeties on and clips ejected, before hanging their harnesses, the routine of it almost easier than breathing, and it’s only when he’s finally peeled away the fabric of his bodysuit that he stops for a moment, stares until his vision starts to unfocus and the cool air feels distant against his skin.

Movement in his line of sight pulls him back, and Slade blinks hard before taking the bundle of clothes being held in front of him, looking from the slate gray sweats and the black shirt to Shikra- no, not Shikra. His uniform is gone, put away while Slade was lost in his mind, replaced with compression leggings and a faded band tee, and his hair falls around his shoulders, shifting when he tilts his head slightly, a curious look in his soft honey eyes, no longer the cold amber he puts on for work. It’s Tim who looks at him now, makes sure he doesn’t lose himself entirely.

It’s a welcome shift.

Slade offers him a nod before dressing, the worn-soft shirt slipped over his head first, comfortable sweats pulled over his legs after, both gentler against his tingling skin than the rough bulletproof weave of his suit, and he breathes just that much easier for it. He looks at Tim, gets a nod of approval, and then follows the young man as he turns away, closing the locker before mounting the metal stairs after Tim to the top level, palm gliding along the handrail. There’s another keypad on this floor that Tim puts a code into as Slade leans against the railing slightly, looking down at the other landings until the wall opens up and Tim steps through into the house part of his Gotham safehouse.

It’s a place Slade’s not unfamiliar with, noting the subtle smell of dust that means Tim’s been out of town lately underneath the normal smells of his home and the slight spice in the air that gets stronger as Tim’s soft footsteps lead Slade to the kitchen. It’s homey, not the stark, minimalist black and white of modernism that so many people seem to favor: the cabinets and the butcher block island are a warm wood, with pale blue granite counters and a fridge littered in magnets from various cities. Slade takes in the clutter as Tim moves around the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes background noise to Slade’s observations: the magnets hold a few stunning pictures of scenery, a few more of Tim’s friends, a list reminding him to pick up more protein powder and refill a prescription in the next few weeks, glimpses into a side of him so different from the quiet menace of Shikra, or the enigmatic heir of Drake Industries. It’s sweet, sentimental, and human in a way Slade knows few others see, one that puts him at ease.

Tim sets a bowl on the island in front of him, another gentle jolt out of his own head, a glass of water joining it as Slade look over the meal, rice and thin slices of meat, the smell of ginger and peppers filling his senses and making his stomach growl startlingly loud in the quiet of Tim’s home. “I guess that means you should eat,” he suggests, turning to collect his own bowl and settle in across the island, motionless until Slade himself starts to eat.

The first bite is warm, a hint of sweetness to its spice, and Slade savors it before swallowing, realizing only at is hits his stomach that it’s his first meal of the day. The knowing look Tim gives him when he glances up tells him the younger had probably already guessed as such, and Slade looks away, noting the crock pot and the rice cooker on the counter in his quest to avoid Tim’s eye.

“Did you make this yourself?” He knows it’s not often Tim cooks, with the way he devotes himself to work, preferring the ease of ordering in. It’s not like it puts a dent in his finances in any way, but homemade food is still a nice surprise, especially after the day Slade’s had.

“I figure it’s a skill I should practice like any other,” he answers, pushing his fork through his rice idly. “It’s pork bulgogi.”

“It’s very good.”

Their eyes meet again and Tim is smiling: not the artificial curve of his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes, but the warm look in his gaze that doesn’t require his lips to express it.

For the first time all night, Slade feels like he’s done something right.

The rest of the meal passes in comfortable quiet, Tim’s same warm, approving look praising Slade when he finishes the last bite of his pork and rice, the glass Tim had set beside him drained. He accepts no help in cleaning up, just sets Slade’s dishes in the dishwasher and packs the rice and pork away before leaving the kitchen, the silent expectation for Slade to follow met as they move through the house, Tim’s back once more Slade’s focal point. He knows the place well enough by now to know where Tim takes him, to grow suspicious if he veers somewhere unusual, but the door Tim opens and ushers Slade into is one he knows by heart.

The emerald green walls of Tim’s bedroom are familiar and inviting, his honey maple furniture giving the whole space warmth, and the personal touches of his sticker-adorned laptop and the signed posters framed on the walls are so comfortingly real that Slade can’t help the exhale he sighs out, eye flicking over it all before Tim takes his hand and guides him to his bed. It’s not unusual for them to end up here; for example, Slade knows well how sturdy that headboard is, and how many times they’ve had to touch up the paint behind it; but tonight is different, a rarity, and Tim treats it as such, taking his time to settle Slade against the headboard, pillow surrounding him, that soft gaze considering him in a way that means he’s reading Slade.

“Color?”

“Green,” he answers.

“Word?”

“Renegade.” Tim’s never asked, never commented on Slade’s choice of safeword, despite the photographic proof of Dick Grayson’s maroon-and-red phase among Tim’s extensive chronicle of the Bats meaning he knows its origin. He’d actually adopted the word himself, rarely-used as it is between them, and he can only surmise it’s as much of a mood-killer for Tim as it is Slade.

“Good.” Content with Slade’s position, Tim follows him onto the bed, his slim, sculpted thighs settling over his lap, one hand curling around the back of Slade’s neck and drawing him in just a bit, so Tim can lay soft kisses against his face: one beneath his good eye, the other under his patch. “I’ll take care of you.”

A deep, shuddering breath escapes Slade before he’s nodding his consent, Tim’s smiling eyes looking over him as his thumb brushes against the side of Slade’s neck, the tense muscles unwinding with each stroke, and Slade’s eye starts to slip shut.

“Keep it open, please,” Tim requests. “You don’t need to meet my eyes. Just watch me, my face, when I talk.”

He nods, taking in Tim’s high, delicate cheekbones, the smooth curve of his jaw, his soft lips, as Tim’s free hand cups his cock through his sweats, gentle strokes of his palm coaxing Slade to hardness. They’ve done this dance before, Tim’s steady touch handling Slade on nights like these, and he feels the tension bleed from his shoulders every time Tim’s deft fingers trace his length, tease the damp head through the fabric.

“You did well tonight,” Tim murmurs, and Slade’s eye flicks up to his ever so briefly, sees they’re clear and honest and adoring, before returning to his lips, watching him form the words that Slade feels he doesn’t deserve. “But you know that. You know you’re skilled. You know you’re capable. It’s your worth you’re not sure about tonight.”

It’s like he hadn’t realized there was a knife in his gut until someone twisted it, Tim’s voice so even and calm that Slade can’t find it in him to dispute him, even as his hand flies to the slim wrist near his face, squeezing until he’s surely bruising Tim’s bones. The hand between his legs stills when he does it, Tim’s head tilting slightly in the edge of Slade’s tunneled vision, and he taps twice against the tendons of Slade’s throat, short but firm. It takes a breath, drawn in deep and blown out with purpose, to quiet the hornets’ nest of static edging in on his thoughts, but he does it.

“Green.”

A soft hum and the lower hand moves, pushes his shirt up his abs and then pulls at the waistband of his pants, rising up on his knees to let Slade shift until the elastic is stretched across his thighs, the cool air against his flushed cock drawing another sigh from him. Tim’s grip returns, the familiar rub of his callouses, worn in from years with his staff, sending sparks up Slade’s spine with each pass over his shaft. His thumb continues to rub circles in the side of Slade’s neck, voice still low when he begins again.

“Your worth isn’t measured by the lives you take.” _Tell that to his employers_.

“It’s not in the lives you save, either.” _Adeline and the kids would think that rich_.

“It isn’t a competition.” _Slade will have to inform Lawton_.

“Your work is not your worth.” His fingers squeeze around the base of Slade’s cock, tight, a brow raised when he looks up from Tim’s lips, and he knows Tim knows how he was spiraling. A slightly sheepish turn of his lips is all Slade can offer, and Tim sighs softly, leans to kiss his cheek beneath his patch again. “You’re listening, right?”

“Yes, Tim.”

“Good.” His hands leave Slade briefly, all their contact focused to the press of Tim’s thighs on his own, but it’s fixed when Tim’s hand returns to his cock slick with lube, the other settling against the side of his face where Slade can hold his wrist again.

“What do you think my worth is, then?” he asks, voice rough, and Tim’s eyes are warm as he strokes Slade, pace smooth, fingers tracing the thick veins and putting pressure on the tip with each pass that has him dripping precum across Tim’s hand.

“You’re a man, Slade. A man who gets up and puts a foot in front of the other every day.” His chest feels tight, and Tim responds, stroking the line of his jaw and reaching down to roll his balls in his palm, eliciting a rattled sigh that loosens his lungs again. “That alone is value beyond measure.”

There’s no way to argue with him, not when Tim sounds so sure, though Slade can’t find it in him to want to, with the pressure on his lap and the shape of Tim’s mouth and each firm stroke of his cock consuming his senses.

“Meet my eyes, Slade.” He can’t argue that, either, stuck fast by his honey gaze, the sweetness and determination in his eyes making his chest ache. “I don’t value you because you’re Deathstroke the Terminator. I value you because you’re Slade Joseph Wilson, and you’re _mine_.”

Slade comes without warning, a soft, strangled sound catching in his throat as his hand nearly crushes Tim’s wrist once more, but the younger man doesn’t flinch, simply strokes Slade through every jerk of his cock, until his hand is striped with cum and Slade is edging into oversensitivity.

The slight face Tim makes earns a breathy laugh, Slade’s mind quiet and warm, and Tim grins sheepishly back at the slip in his dominant persona before wiping his hand on his shirt and then stripping the whole thing off to clean the sweat and lube from Slade’s skin, tossing it off the side of the bed carelessly. He closes his eye and Tim doesn’t protest this time, just shifts a little in his lap and kisses the corner of his mouth, a cool glass soon pressed into his hands and lifted to his lips that Slade obediently drinks from until Tim decides he’s had enough.

It might be different, the next time they meet: maybe Tim will need ropes to hold him together in a way he can’t do himself, maybe they’ll both need the brutal release of a fucking that’s more like a fight. Tonight, though, Slade thinks, settling into the sheets with slim, deadly fingers tracing idle patterns on his back and the steady thump of Tim’s heart under his hand, this is exactly what he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at blackbat16, comments are love!


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